


and we who are solitary creatures

by blazeofglory



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-War, Reunions, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the long road back to Winterfell, Sansa made plans for seven funerals... But that was before she saw the familiar figure standing in her dead sister's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we who are solitary creatures

Sansa had heard the rumors, but after everything, she wasn’t inclined to believe _anything_ until she it saw for herself. Long gone was the naïve girl she used to be, who never questioned a story and always loved to hear a song. So when she heard that Arya had been found, that she too had been living a lie but was now returned to Winterfell, it almost sounded too good to be true. She had been told time and time again that Arya was dead; no one had seen her since their father’s beheading. And if there were a girl there pretending to be Arya, this wouldn’t be the first time.

Maybe it was her way of protecting herself in case she’d been lied to, Sansa didn’t know, but she refused to believe the rumors anyway. Instead, she made plans in her head of all the funerals they would need to hold. Years and years had gone by, but there had never been a proper burial for her father, even if his bones had somehow made it back up North. And—gods, it still hurt to think about—she had heard the way her mother and Robb’s bodies had been treated after they’d been murdered… Bran and Rickon too, burnt and strung up. Most fresh of all was Jon, the only one of them all that she had thought was safe, betrayed by the men he trusted… That was six Starks that needed a funeral, and… and Arya too, if she wasn’t waiting at Winterfell. And she _wasn’t_ , Sansa knew, she refused to get her hopes up.

Seven funerals, but no bodies.

It was a long trip up North, though Sansa was far from alone. After she’d been summoned to King’s Landing, she had spoken to the new queen at length. Daenerys was different than any queen Sansa had met before, and she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about her, but Daenerys was _kind_ , and not in the way that Cersei had seemed kind when they first met.Sansa knew that the queen had felt the same pain of being far from home for too long; she, too, was the last of her family, and had been alone for so long… They were not friends, no. But there was an understanding between them, and Sansa did not even have to ask to be sent home. Queen Daenerys understood.

She had been sent off with more than a dozen men; not knights, and they did not speak the common tongue, but the queen had sworn that they were the most loyal in her service, and who was Sansa to doubt that? Queen Daenerys had named her the Warden of the North, Lady Stark of Winterfell. This new alliance between the Starks and the Targaryens would help keep the country together, especially when there were still riots in most cities. The streets of King’s Landing were not safe, and the kingsroad even less so. Her and the unsullied made slow time. 

The planning of the funerals was the only thing she could think of to occupy her mind, no matter how morbid. The only other option was to imagine what it would be like to rule, and… Sansa didn’t know. All her life, she had never held an ounce of power, and now she was going to be expected to rule the North. If she had known the words to say, she was sure she would have told the queen that she couldn’t do it. But who else _would_? She was all that was left. 

When they arrived, Sansa almost didn’t want to look, but she made herself. _This is my land now,_ she told herself. _My people. I must know how they fare; I must know what this war has done to them._ The answer was about as pleasant as she expected. Winterfell had been put to the torch years ago now, but the rebuilding had only just begun. She saw no livestock, and very few people. There were a few patches of grass, and one finished house; the rest were either works in progress or still burnt wood lying on the ground. She recognized none of the faces she saw, though they stared openly, like they knew her.

The castle itself was even harder to look upon. If Sansa hadn’t known what it was supposed to be, she didn’t think she would have recognized it. It looked nothing like the home she grew up in. It was black and crumbling, the land around it all burnt, the towers falling down… This place was strange and unknown to her.

Though she had never been to Harrenhal, that was the only thing that came to mind—a once beautiful castle, devastated by dragon fire…

When she stepped inside—and it took a lot for her to get that far—she sent the queen’s men away, and the small group of Northmen that had greeted her to wait outside. It was salt in the wound, it was adding insult to injury, but she forced herself on a tour of the castle’s ruins. Jeyne and Septa Mordane were not waiting for her in her rooms. Mother and father were not speaking out in the yard. Robb and Jon were not sparring with wooden swords, Bran was not telling stories, Rickon was nowhere to be found, and Arya—no. That wasn’t her.

There was a girl standing in Arya’s old bedroom. It looked nothing like it had before, just like the rest of the castle. The girl was standing in front of the window, staring out at the burnt yard, but when she heard Sansa coming, she turned, immediately drawing the sword from her side.

The girl looked almost like Arya, but it wasn’t her. She was older, and her hair was cut short. Her eyes were dark, and her skin tanned, and she—she looked like she had been through all seven hells. No, this girl couldn’t be her sister.

But there was something in her eyes. Something familiar and _fond_ , and she was looking at Sansa like she couldn’t believe she was there.

“I thought you were dead,” Sansa said quietly, her throat thick with tears that she would not let fall. She had learned long ago that crying solved nothing, unless your goal was to make people pity you. The girl— _Arya,_ it had to be her—showed no signs of tears. She smiled, but there was no joy behind it.

“I am, in a way,” Arya replied after a moment. Even her voice sounded different; she was a woman grown now, not the child that Sansa had known. Sansa herself had been a child then too. Those days were long gone now. “I haven’t been called Arya in ages.” 

Sansa stepped closer, into the room. Arya put her sword away.

“I haven’t been Sansa either,” she admitted. For so long, she had been only the traitor’s daughter, the traitor’s sister, Joffrey’s plaything, Tyrion’s wife—and then Alayne Stone. Even when she had still been Sansa, she hadn’t been a Stark. Her name and her pride had been stripped of her when her father lost his head. “Now I—I’m Lady Stark.”

Arya was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the ground, and then said, softly, “You look like her.”  Then another pause. “I had almost forgotten what she looked like, but you look like her.”

“And you look like father.” When the tears had started falling, she had no idea. They had so much to talk about, so much to be thankful for, and so much to mourn… But she did not move any closer. The last time she’d seen such a familiar face had been the day their father was beheaded—had Arya even been there? She had gone missing that very day, and presumed dead not too long after that.

 _Gods, it was like seeing a ghost._ Arya had turned away again, her dark eyes staring blankly out the window. So much had changed. She ached to step closer, to embrace Arya and hold her and cry.  They had never been the hugging sort, and they certainly weren’t now—perhaps they were even farther from that than when they had started. They had never had a single thing in common, and now with so many years apart… Oh, they had both struggled, for sure. But without even knowing any of what Arya had been through, Sansa knew for certain that their struggles had been nothing alike.

“It feels good to be home,” Sansa said after the silence stretched on too long. It was a lie and they both knew it, but she had been taught how to fake courtesies from the day she was born, so it came easy. “The repairs shouldn’t take too long.”

Arya snorted derisively, the sound both familiar and foreign at the same time. “We’re not home. There’s no going home after all that’s happened.”

“It’s not the same, but it _is_ home, Arya.”

The younger girl finally turned back towards her again, a pained look on her face that Sansa recognized immediately—not because she had seen it on Arya before, but because she had seen it on herself, every time she passed a mirror. This pain was as an old ache, one that had started the day they had left this place—or perhaps even before that, when Bran had fallen…

“I don’t believe in the gods,” Arya said suddenly. “I don’t know if there’s any sort of plan here, or—or if anything happens when we die. But home is wherever they are now, and they’re not _here._ ”

Sansa wiped away the last of her tears, taking a deep breath. “They may not be here, but _we are_.” She took a step closer, reaching for Arya’s calloused hand to hold in hers. “This will be our home again soon.”

Sansa held her hand tight, and Arya squeezed back. She nodded, a faint smile finally settling on her lips. “You sort of sound like Lady Stark now.”

“I suppose I have no choice,” Sansa mused quietly. When had she _ever_ had a choice? Her own smile wasn’t quite forced, but it was brittle and fragile. It would take a long time to learn how to be happy again, but… Arya’s hand was warm in hers, and there were the sounds of people talking in low voices outside, and a dog barking in the distance, and… and a fire in the hearth would go a long way towards making this room seem inhabitable again.

“I think you’ll do alright,” Arya said gently.

Sansa squeezed her hand once more before letting go. “I shall do my best.”


End file.
